


The Cold Hill's Side

by dizzy_fire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - J.K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Magic, F/F, Gen, Implied Femslash, Implied Psychic Molestation, Implied/Referenced Incest, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy_fire/pseuds/dizzy_fire
Summary: AU: Gormlaith managed to kidnap Rionach as a baby, and raised her like she believed women of Slytherin blood should be raised.





	The Cold Hill's Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyrilu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/gifts).



The young woman's name was Morrigan, or at least that was what her aunt called her. Morrigan had no reason to doubt her word on this – Aunt Gormlaith had raised her from the time she'd been a baby, and Morrigan had been her name for as long as she could remember, whether or not it was the name her parents had given her. Morrigan's parents were a mystery to her; she was not quite sure if she'd had any to speak of, or whether they had been around long enough to name her. There were many things unsaid between Aunt Gormlaith and her, and others still that she might well wish had remained so. But as she grew, she somehow remained silently, persistently aware that Morrigan was the name Gormlaith had chosen for her.

It seemed to her that other people did not tend to think about such matters quite as often as she did, although she had little enough basis for the comparison, having spent the first twenty years of her life with little contact from anyone other than her aunt. They travelled a lot, and rarely stayed in any place long enough to put down roots. Some of these travels were for Gormlaith's business; others were for Morrigan's edification; and for some Gormlaith gave no reason one way or another. These were usually the times when they left very quickly, in the wee hours of the morning. In a lesser woman than Morrigan's aunt, these surreptitious early morning departures would have seemed like flight; but there was always something imperious and unbowed about Gormlaith, and Morrigan could not quite bring herself to think of it in these terms. Yet, with time, it became increasingly clear to her that they were pursued – and pursued by something that was as determined to catch up with them as her aunt was determined to escape.

This particular travel was not an escape attempt, as far as Morrigan knew. They were in one of the German states – again, as far as she knew, although she left herself some room for uncertainty. They travelled fast and light, Apparating often, picking up a book here and a mysterious package there from furtive witches and warlocks, who more often than not avoided looking Gormlaith in the eye. She accepted it as a queen accepts her due, and dispensed regal wrath on those rare few who dared to be more familiar with Morrigan, her plump little assistant and shadow. Not all the offenders were still breathing when they left them.

All around them, a great war raged. Muggles, on the rare occasions that Morrigan had anything to do with them, had gaunt faces and wary eyes no matter how far they travelled. As witches, Gormlaith and Morrigan were safer than most; not that they had not walked into a slaughtered village or two, or met with marauders on a highway, but their combined magic served to keep and defend them, as any Muggle who tried to do them harm found out quickly and rather gruesomely. Gormlaith found these interludes very diverting. Morrigan could not say the same for herself, but at that point she knew better than to show misguided pity.

Such were her thoughts that afternoon, as she watched over a Muggle they had captured, running her knife backwards and forwards across the whetstone. (It was possible to keep a knife sharp by magic, of course, but what was good enough for cutting bread or carving a chicken wasn't necessarily appropriate for other purposes.) The Muggle was quite young – if not younger than Morrigan herself, then certainly not older. His eyes were rolling wildly in his head. Morrigan thought she could see some tears.

“You should have kept better company, Muggle boy,” she said out loud, because there was a large part of her that felt uneasy to see the young marauder cry, and she had to silence it, one way or another.

“Are you _talking_ to the scum, Morrigan?” Gormlaith sounded more disappointed than angry, but her niece still started and tried in vain to hide it.

“No, Madam – I'm sure he can't understand me.”

“Hmph. Nor answer, I'd wager. Good work with that body-binding spell.” Gormlaith briefly touched her shoulder, and Morrigan allowed herself to relax.

“Thank you, Madam.”

“You're learning. Now,” she moved past the younger woman and leaned over the captured Muggle, studying him like a cook might study a cut of meat, “is your knife ready? The sun will shortly set. We do not have much time.”

Morrigan gave the blade one last buff and passed it to her wordlessly. Gormlaith's striking features twisted in another disappointed grimace. It was an expression Morrigan knew well.

“Squeamish again, girl?”

The young woman had lost the last of her squeamishness around the age of twelve or so, but she allowed herself to admit, at least privately, that she did not find much enjoyment in some of the things her aunt did. It might have been old magic, great magic, _their_ magic; but she still closed her eyes just before the knife moved, already flashing red in the glorious crimson sunset.

“The Muggle will serve us well,” Gormlaith assured her. “Better than such as he deserve, in fact. There is a price to pay, to go where we are going and see what we will see – a price that can fortunately be paid with Muggle blood. Really, Morrigan, is that not a good use for them, in the end?” They undressed, circling the clearing first clockwise and then anticlockwise, and anointed each other's bodies with the thick red liquid; and if Morrigan remained silent throughout, that was well enough, for her aunt did not expect her to speak.

Other words were said, and other things done, which Morrigan did not quite understand, even with her education so far, and which in truth she had no wish to remember. Finally, with the trill of a full-throated chant still ringing in the air, Gormlaith stopped and was for a moment completely still. Her back was turned on the sun, her flashing eyes fixed on the mountain which they were to climb that night. Morrigan watched her, fierce and beautiful, clad only in the blood of the man she had killed. At that moment, if Gormlaith had turned her knife on her, she would not even have tried to stop her.

Slowly, Gormlaith raised her arms above her head. In the corner of her eye Morrigan saw movement, a drifting of light and shadows in the direction Gormlaith was facing. The young woman turned to look – and froze, rooted to the spot by the sight of an enormous dark figure, far away, near the mountaintop. The figure was illuminated from behind with a rainbow glow almost like a halo, except that it was plain to Morrigan that there was nothing angelic about it. It seemed clad in a black, semi-translucent gauze or muslin, strips of which waved and writhed about, casting long shadows that almost reached the clearing where the two women stood. The figure's arms were raised, and for a moment Morrigan tried to hold on to the hope that it was only Gormlaith's shadow somehow cast against the mountainside. Then, very carefully, Gormlaith lowered her arms. The dark figure remained in the same position as before, and Morrigan knew that if it was a shadow, then nothing human cast it.

“The Guardian is satisfied. We may pass,” said Gormlaith. She sounded triumphant, but also a little relieved, which did nothing to calm Morrigan's wildly beating heart.

“And will we climb to the very top, Madam?” she dared ask. Thankfully, Gormlaith only laughed.

“When you are twice the age you are now, girl, and if you continue in your studies, you may perhaps be able to climb this mountain halfway. Tonight you will only take your first steps upon the path, and then... then we will see what the path does with you.” Though her tone was mocking, and her last words downright menacing, Morrigan was happy enough to hear that they would not be going anywhere near the dark figure, and followed her aunt into the forest without complaint.

It was a very strange forest, that one – quieter and somehow more desolate than any woods she had been to before (though not after). The trees grew thick, and the last rays of the setting sun could not break through the black canopy. The air was heavy with the wet smell of freshly turned earth. Gormlaith kept a good pace; Morrigan tried her best to match it, but it seemed that the branches, brambles and stones all conspired to keep her behind. Soon enough she had lost sight of her aunt, except for occasional glances of her pale body, far ahead. She almost called out, but her mouth was too dry, and the silence of the forest too oppressive.

Suddenly there was a susurration all around her, although there was no wind, and the great trees stood motionless. She turned her head around, cold with sudden fear, but she could not stop herself from walking onwards. It seemed that her body was no longer obeying the commands of her conscious mind. The noise grew, and so did her terror, until she suddenly realised what she was hearing, and laughed out loud with deep relief. The undergrowth around her was full of snakes! She could see them now, as well as hear them – smooth and graceful beauties, some large, some small, some harmless, others quite the opposite – and all accompanying her to her unknown destination.

Granted, many people would not be so heartened by the sight of uncountable scores of snakes, but Parseltongue was part of Morrigan's unique heritage, and she had always felt a warm regard for the creatures. These snakes here would not talk to her, but even silent, their presence was a source of great comfort.

She walked faster and faster now, and suddenly found herself breaking into a run. Her earlier fear was quite gone, replaced by a sense of elation. In spite of being naked, she felt warm – hot, even, in the places where the Muggle's blood had touched her. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The wetness of tilled earth was between her legs. Her mind was the mind of a leaping salmon, a racing deer. Why not go to the summit, after all? Why not meet the Guardian, and see if it would share that which it guarded?

All at once, both her wild run and her wild thoughts were cut short when something caught her arm and held fast. She cast her eyes back, expecting to find herself tangled in some branches, but no. It was a man who held her – a very old man, wizened and dressed in robes of a centuries-old style she had never seen outside of a book. His dark eyes bore into hers; he pursed his lips and shook his head. There was something of Gormlaith about his face, or (perhaps more accurately) there was something of him about Gormlaith. Then a cold wind blew leaves into Morrigan's eyes, and when she had blinked to clear them, she saw that it was only a tree that held her, after all.

She slowly turned around on the spot, no longer compelled to walk or run. She was alone – the man was gone, if he had ever been there in the first place, and she could not see Gormlaith anywhere. No longer knowing where to go, she was gripped by a powerful uncertainty. Then, gradually, she began to hear a voice, far away, rising and falling like the cadences of a distant sea.

_You are lost... but I am looking._

_You are lost... but we will find you._

_You were taken from us. You had..._

_...another home, another..._

_...name._

_Rionach. Rionach._

_RIONACH!_

When she awoke, she was screaming that name.

***

To say Gormlaith was not happy would be an understatement. Before Morrigan knew what was happening, she was slapped hard enough to make her teeth rattle. She gasped for breath, the voice from her vision still ringing in her ears.

Gormlaith towered over her, naked and terrifying. Whatever she had met on her path that night, she looked younger, her body firm, her hair untouched by grey. She was beautiful in the way an angry adder is beautiful, and more dangerous than any adder in the history of the world. This time, however, she regained control over herself very quickly, and gave the younger woman a smile that would be reassuring if Morrigan did not know her aunt.

“You looked lost in your nightmare, Morrigan.” She helped the girl to her feet, and cradled her face with unaccustomed gentleness. “The first step on this path is always difficult. Allow me to help.”

Gormlaith was an accomplished Legilimens, and Morrigan had no strength left to resist her, even if she dared. She felt Gormlaith enter her mind and sift through it unhurriedly. The presence cast a warm blanket over Morrigan's senses. Her hold over the present slipped; blood once again rushed to her face and pulsed in her crotch. Gormlaith knew how to take in ways that made people want to give, if she so desired. Morrigan opened herself up to her, and when Gormlaith withdrew, when the girl's shaky legs would no longer carry her, she fell to her knees, tender and spent in more ways than one.

Gormlaith seemed satisfied with what she took from her niece's mind; Morrigan was satisfied with what she managed to keep. As she lay on the cold ground, watching the first light of sunrise through half-open eyes, she cradled that knowledge to her chest, and it warmed her much more than the pale April sun. Gormlaith had tried to be thorough, but nevertheless she had left something behind. A little scrap, a crumb... a name.

 _My name is Rionach_ , thought the young woman, knowing that from that day on she could reject the name her aunt had given her. _My name is Rionach... and I shall not forget._

**Author's Note:**

> The description of the Guardian is based on the Brocken spectre, which I found out about shortly before writing this story. (It really is just someone's shadow cast against clouds, but it looks so fantastically creepy, words don't do it justice.)


End file.
